Cricket
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Cricket is told from Bruce's POV. In this opening chapter, the Batman sets out to foil the assassination of a foreign politician by one of the world's deadliest killers, a ten-year-old boy known only as Cricket whilst also attempting to gain a deeper knowledge of the assassin's psychology. Set to run four chapters. Later chapters likely to feature Tim and Cassandra. Read on. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Cricket is a character that has appeared in precisely one panel of one issue of the Red Robin comic series prior to the New 52 reboot taking place. I wanted to flesh him out a bit more and explore his possible motivations and abilities. Billed as one of the world's deadliest killers, but only seen once beating both Tim and Cassandra Cain simultaneously in Hong Kong, it seems incredulous to me that no-one has done anything like this before.**

 **So, told from Bruce's POV in this opening chapter, the Batman sets out to foil the assassination of a foreign politician by Cricket whilst also attempting to gain a deeper knowledge of the assassin's psychology.**

 **This will run for at least four chapters and, depending on reaction to this story arc, I may do more stories featuring Cricket in some supporting role or other.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Cricket**

 **Bruce**

There is an assassin in Gotham this evening. A leading foreign dignitary from Hong Kong, Karen Wu, is transiting through the city on route to high-profile political meetings in New York. She has been met with death threats from radicals and disgruntled people over her policies. Most of the threats are not to be taken seriously. However, someone has hired the services of one of the world's leading assassins to eliminate her from play, likely a political rival with considerable finances. She is not ignorant of her status as a target and has hired additional security to protect her passage to New York. If Red Robin's intelligence is to be believed however, such measures will not be enough to save her. She will not die in my city though, not tonight.

I only pray I am enough.

I arrive at her hotel in time to discover a hallway full of barely alive bodyguards, most of them covered in their own blood. The assassin is already here. I hear noise and track it to her hotel suite, presenting myself just before the assailant can deal a killing blow to their target. My sudden appearance startles them long enough for Miss Wu to escape their immediate vicinity and lock herself in the en-suite bathroom. The assassin is exactly as Tim described, but I am still bemused by their appearance and general demeanour.

I am presented with what appears to be a ten-year-old boy dressed in an outfit that simultaneously evokes both Victorian high society and dressage. Knee-high black boots are combined with pin-striped trousers, a matching waistcoat and what appears to be an immaculate white dress shirt. His skin is pale, his hair is silver and his eyes are concealed by welder's goggles. He sports dove-grey riding gloves on his hands and tops off this bizarre costume with an Edwardian tailcoat and what could possibly be a school-tie. It is as immaculately knotted as his shirt is pressed.

This is him, the boy known only as Cricket.

I thought perhaps Tim was exaggerating when he said both he and Cassandra were soundly beaten by a child even more violent and cruel than Damian at his worse. However, judging by what I saw outside, and the volume of blood spattering this boy's boots and gloves currently, he was likely correct. We regard one another in silence for a few moments before I break it.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask. The boy smirks, displaying pristine and perfectly aligned white teeth.

"Oh, I know. You're the Bat." He replies with the clipped and polished tone that reveals his origins as not being that far from Alfred's birthplace of Kensington. "Everyone else was too scared to come to this picnic – because 'the Bat' might get them." He laughs derisively, but genuinely amused the notion that I am a deterrent to crime.

"I take it you consider yourself..." I do not get time to finish my sentence. In the blink of an eye, the boy has closed a ten-foot gap and aimed a kick at my head. I cannot dodge the blow completely, there is insufficient time, but I do mitigate it enough so that the outer edge of his foot can only skim my cheek. His speed is even more remarkable than was indicated. He lands behind me and pivots on the balls of his feet with the fluidic grace of a seasoned ballet dancer.

"My, my! Faster than you look, that's for certain." The assassin laughs before launching into another frontal assault, this time done at a much faster speed. He is now throwing two strikes before I can even block once. The disorientation caused by his blurring movements is also not helping my situation. I am hit multiple times and from multiple vectors. Fortunately, he is still only a child and his blows do not possess the weight required to injure me. However, if he can maintain his current workload, the cumulation effect means I will succumb in a matter of minutes...if I wished to fight him hand-to-hand.

I don't.

If Cassandra Cain was outmatched in unarmed combat with this boy, I have no chance. I am also mindful that Tim, even with his vast fighting experience, suffered broken bones and dislocations without stretching Cricket's talents to breaking point. But I was prepared to be overwhelmed by melee attacks. That is why I specifically wore this variant of my suit. Every time he strikes my body, my gauntlets are charged with electrical current. When I judge them to possess the equivalent voltage of a police taser, I will hit him directly in the chest. The amount of current should be enough to render him unconscious without stopping his heart. In theory at least.

When he hits me with a stiff kick in the mid-section, I deem them ready for field testing. I have memorised his fight pattern and what I can manage of his timing. He always follows two left straights with a right cross. That is when I must make my move. As soon as he throws one left, I know another is already on its way. When the second one lands, striking my solar-plexus, I adjust my feet slightly. The right comes in faster than one-tenth of a second. I shift a fraction of an inch to put him off line. I swing a counterpunch directly at his sternum, where the current will have the greatest effect...

Only to find air. He is fast enough to change direction when already committed to a strike. Amazing; it is almost super-speed. I think I hear him chirp in surprise. When I pull my arm back to my side, Cricket is already back in his original position ten feet from me. He is laughing giddily.

"This is super fun!" He crows in what I can only interpret as delight. "Aren't you smart? They said you were smart."

"You need to leave. Now." I growl. I know it is not an effective measure, but I can use his response to grade his psychopathy. The boy regards his hands briefly.

"So funny when people get covered with other people's blood, don't you think?" Cricket says gesturing to my suit. I do not need to glance down to know his fists and feet have transferred copious amounts of blood from his clothing to mine. He grins impishly. "Now we look like accomplices. Isn't it grand? We could share the money if you like. You'd make a good murderer."

"I don't kill."

He scoffs. "I don't see why not. It's very easy. Shall I show you?"

He is at the bathroom door in the time it takes me to hitch my breath. He kicks it down before I can point my feet towards him. Frightening talent. I am undeterred though. There is a weakness. I throw multiple batarangs in his direction, expecting him to evade all of them with his movement. He does, but they land where I need them to. Before he can move beyond the doorframe, the projectiles emit an ultrasonic wail. Normally beyond human hearing, I believe his insect moniker may not be entirely based on his chirping and speed alone. He seems to lose his equilibrium, confirming my suspicions that his hearing is incredibly sensitive. It was a calculated risk, but I think it has been justified. Hopefully he is in too much pain to notice my presence behind him...

I almost deliver the blow intended for his chest to his back before realising I could paralyse him if I strike his spinal cord. I hesitate for only a moment, but it is enough for the boy to jump away. His feet scrape the ceiling in carrying him over my head. He lands on his feet but sinks to one knee, clutching his ears with both hands. I see his blood trickle down the sides of his face. His smile is gone.

"That's a rotten trick." He announces through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps your mother can kiss them better for you." I reply dryly. Another calculated risk. How angry can I make him, and what effect does this have on his combat abilities? He wrinkles his nose in distaste and I believe I have hit a nerve.

Then he laughs.

"You really think she's still alive?" He asks rising to his feet.

I do not need to assess his psychology further. He is a classic psychopath, in the mould of practically all others like him, including the Joker and Floyd Lawton. The only difference is his age. It must have manifested very early in life, possibly related to his upbringing or natural abilities. It is terrifying to imagine this is what Damian could have been if not for siding with me. I watch as Cricket scrutinises his own blood on his fingers.

"It's been a while. I think we've played enough now, don't you? It's time to fight for real instead of just pretend." The boy says looking at me sideways on. He is still smiling.

Normally such talk is only a bluff from my opponents, one last desperate act of defiance before defeat. I know he echoed similar words to Cassandra when she and Tim fought him in Hong Kong. My gauntlets will prove effective, but I have to hit him, a feat I do not believe is possible. I have one other method to subdue him, but it will require absorbing even more punishment than before to achieve.

Before I can argue as to which method will yield the most success, Cricket besieges my defences again, this time operating with speed I cannot even see. He hits me a dozen times before I can offer a half-hearted counter-swing in reply. These blows hurt far more. If my body were less conditioned, my ribs would already be broken by the time he launches another attack sequence. This one contains as many as twenty strikes, if not more, all of them aimed at my face and mid-section. I lunge for him in vain as he flips over my head and begins to unleash kick after kick to my back. The number of hits must exceed thirty when I collapse to one knee. He is only softening me. I am bruised, but not broken. Not yet. He wants to enjoy this triumph.

"I knew you couldn't fight me at full-strength." Cricket sings in my ear. He is close enough to my head that I can smell his breath. Is that really chocolate? I lift my head to witness him theatrically cock his left fist and aim it at my head. "Do you have any last words?"

I look him in the eye and smile. "Do you?" I ask before an arming beep, the sort heard just before an explosive charge detonates, reverberates around the room. The boy is fast enough to slip out of his tailcoat before the charge I planted on his back explodes. But I anticipated that. So, I press the detonator again. A second beep is heard, but this time he cannot find the source. The charge nestled behind his necktie functions, sending him three feet back across the room. I deliberately lowered the yield on my charges so that the worst injuries sustainable are flash burns and a temporary concussive effect. It was prudent on my part. His body would not have handled anything of greater strength, not on his sternum anyway.

"Will, will there be more?" A terrified Miss Wu asks, tentatively emerging from the bathroom as I approach my fallen foe. I shake my head.

"No. He was more than enough. There will be no others."

I instruct Miss Wu to go downstairs and alert the lobby staff. She scampers past both myself and Cricket's prone form without incident. I carefully examine the boy but determine that he is indeed out for the foreseeable future. Remarkable. For all his speed and skill, sleight of hand and his own overconfidence were the only tools needed to defeat him. It is an oddly hollow feeling to have beaten someone without connecting successfully on one single strike. Granted, I only threw four punches and the last two were distractions rather than legitimate attempts, but it is still poor.

I crouch down beside him as he lies eagle-spread on his back with a neat circular hole in the fabric of his dress shirt. Beneath the hole is what appears to be superficial burns and nothing more. Excellent. I produce magnetic restraints from my belt, place both his hands on his chest and then snap the restraints around his wrists. I perform the same procedure with his ankles before finally snapping a magnetic collar around his neck. If required, one press on a hand remote will force all the restraints together, effectively locking his body into a foetal position that even Killer Croc could not muscle his way out of. It should be enough to transport him back to the cave. I definitely want further analysis conducted on him.

Before returning home, I ensure ambulances and paramedics have been called for Miss Wu's injured security detail. I also take the opportunity to examine their injuries to determine if Cricket has a distinctive modus operandi when dispatching his adversaries. Perhaps then I can ascertain which recent assassination victims around the world belong to him and build a more substantial profile. There does not seem to be any notable hallmark or calling card to his work though, save for the fact all of it is violent. Jim will want me to bring Cricket in to face judgement for this attempted murder but I doubt there is a facility in the world that can safely house him. Except mine.

Alfred objects strongly to keeping the boy in captivity just for the purposes of scientific study. He is welcome to his ethical and moral objections. When I reveal Cricket's possible body count is one-hundred-and-eight in only a two-year period of activity, the old man is less critical of my actions. He is even more receptive to the idea when I add what injuries he inflicted on Tim and Cassandra in Hong Kong. However, he now has a new concern with Cricket's prolonged incarceration here: Damian.

I want to broach the subject with him but have other concerns when the assassin stirs back to consciousness, despite the trauma only occurring fifty minutes ago. Cricket is disorientated momentarily, but soon realises his predicament. For safety reasons, I have removed his boots and any long piece of clothing such as his necktie and belt. He is currently housed in the Perspex cube known colloquially as the 'Fish Tank', which is situated just east of the practice area. He immediately tests the strength of his prison with a series of rapid-fire kicks. The walls hold firm. He nods his head in understanding.

"You really are smart, Mr Wayne. Very smart." He calls through the glass. Somehow, I am not surprised he knows my true identity. It only helps to narrow down his parent organisation or school of instruction. I can discount dozens immediately now he has divulged that fact to me willingly. "A second charge. I should have known you weren't silly enough to fight me hand-to-hand. Too smart for a game of fisticuffs, aren't you?" The boy adds with a sneer as he begins to pace the length of the cage. I say nothing but do approach the glass until I am practically pressed against it.

Cricket stops pacing and looks at me with vague interest. Perhaps he wonders if he has hit a sore spot with me. Despite his situation, one thing this child does not look is afraid. He manoeuvres in front of me and cranes his neck up. "They said you collect things, Mr Wayne, to remind you of your victories. Is that what I am, a trophy for your collection?" He asks before giggling and completing a brief twirl. "Am I a pretty enough trophy for you?" Is this still a game to him? I say nothing and turn away from him, intending to go talk with Damian about our new 'houseguest' in private.

"Tell your butler I like my Beef Wellington rare, Mr Wayne! And lots of trifle for pudding!" Cricket calls after me, clearly expecting to be well-treated in captivity. He is not misguided in this respect. Even though he is one of the deadliest and most prolific killers in the world, he is still just a child. I will not deny him basic necessities in pursuit of my goals. I stop in place and consider.

"Do you like strawberry or raspberry trifle?" I inquire. There is a short silence.

"Raspberry, please." Cricket responds with obvious confusion at my question, if his sudden manners are any indicator. I incline my head without looking at him.

"I will make sure the message is passed on."

Damian regards me as if I am delusional when I inform him of Cricket's detainment. The boy is aware of the assassin's credentials and reputation. That is why he deems capturing him is impossible, until a live security feed proves otherwise. His delusion gives way to awe, before reverting to contempt when he realises I could not subdue Cricket without gadget trickery. Despite his sourness at what he thinks is cheating on my part, he continues to talk. He is adamant the child has not been trained by the League of Assassins or the Court of Owls. When pressed as to why, my son stares at me in incredulity to grant me the complete range of his emotional arc in less than ten minutes.

"Because he's too good, Father. Whoever trained him is far beyond my grandfather's level and those stupid Talon soldiers. I have seen security footage of his assassination in Laos from last spring. He moves like nothing I've ever seen. He must have some sort of meta abilities to be so...beautiful in combat." His reaction is what I was afraid of. The boy is an admirer of Cricket as a fighter. That I can understand, given Damian's love for combat. What I cannot understand is his choice of words. My son finds beauty in nothing. Things are either 'admirable' or 'poor' in his eyes, but they are never beautiful. Apparently, in Damian's eyes at least, the sight of a ten-year-old boy massacring a room of soldiers and their general is of greater merit than any of human civilisation's most coveted treasures. I clap a hand on his shoulder.

"He knows who I am, Son. The likelihood is he knows who you are too. That already makes him dangerous without your added infatuation to his lethal nature. I do not want to keep you from assisting me in the cave with my analysis of him, but I need to know you will not be seduced by his reputation. He strikes me as someone willing to go to any levels to escape captivity." I say honestly. The boy's eyes first look insulted but soften shortly after. He appreciates my concern, given he used to kill people whenever it suited him. I do not need or want a relapse.

"I understand, Father. I promise I will not prove to be a liability." He tells me with all the conviction I need to assuage further doubt. I will watch their interactions closely, but only as a precaution, not a control measure. I incline my head in appreciation.

"Good boy."

An hour later finds us both outside the Fish Tank watching our detainee eat his Beef Wellington at the single fixed table and chair in the cell. Cricket holds his plastic cutlery properly and employs well-drilled dining etiquette; he is always mindful his elbows are off the table and that his posture is never slumped. I find myself learning something new every moment about him. He is still sporting his welder's goggles because I could not remove them from his head. Either they are fixed in place or fused there. I feel it is crucial to understand which.

"Is the meal to your liking?" I ask whilst keeping a respectful distance between us.

The silver-haired boy nods. "Your butler knows how to make a great Beef Wellington, Mr Wayne. Most chefs I ask for it cooked rare give me _medium-rare_ instead. It all gets very upsetting sometimes. Am I still having trifle for pudding?"

"If you cooperate, you may help yourself to seconds on all the courses."

"What if I don't want seconds?"

"Then you will have no dessert to begin with."

"That seems inhumane."

"Does it? Withholding dessert is inhumane, but murdering politicians for money isn't?"

"Withholding pudding is always inhumane, Mr Wayne. Oh, do you have Eton Mess? I adore Eton Mess! It's so chewy."

"Well, he seems to have his priorities in order, Father." Damian quips sarcastically in a way that echoes my own sense of humour. His remark perks Cricket's interest and his attention actually wavers from his plate to the boy's direction.

"You. I've heard of you. Your grandad's a loser." The assassin says, clearly trying to push buttons that have no effect. Damian's face remains blank.

"And who do you believe my grandfather to be?" He asks our guest with only the faintest hint of curiosity.

"Ras Al Ghul. He calls himself the Demon's Head, but he's really just a weak, old man half-a-dozen centuries past his prime." Cricket answers to display that, even if he isn't part of the League, he knows of them.

"Has someone told you that?" Damian inquires.

The silver-haired boy scoffs almost exactly as Damian is prone to do. "No. I've played with the League before. I belted his arse two years ago."

Damian scoffs back with the same derision. "When you were eight?"

"Nearly nine, actually."

"How many assassins did you dispatch?" My son asks. Cricket sets down his cutlery, stands up and then wanders until he is stood directly in front of Damian, revealing they are the same height and build. Perhaps they are the same age too? The assassin leans his forearms against the glass and rests his chin atop of them before replying.

"Twenty-one. I left him alive though. Because that hurts him most, not being good enough to kill."

"He values honour."

"Well, he shouldn't. Honour makes you weak."

"My father's honour is the only reason you are still breathing. Anyone else in his position would have killed you."

"Nobody else has ever been good enough. Your dad is the smartest man I've come across, but he's not much of a fighter. I bet he can still beat you in combat though. You must be as weak as a kitten."

"You are clearly new to the rules of capture. Your aim should be to establish a rapport with your jailers, get them to see you as a human being instead of a prisoner. Thus far, you just come across as a shallow bastard that no-one could possibly like." Damian retorts. I am impressed with his composure, given how much his fighting prowess means to him. Cricket smiles.

"Funny. That's exactly how they described you."

This touches a visible nerve with Damian. The boy's unreadable expression breaks just enough for our captive to identify a weakness he can exploit. Cricket is what my son used to be, not what he is now. Damian has worked hard to change himself into a better person, but moments like this make him question his progress and whether it is enough. I want to reassure him, but know I cannot, not in front of this cold and manipulative individual.

"Are you done with your Wellington?" I ask to shift his attentions to me.

"Can you put it in the fridge? I think I might like it for dinner tomorrow."

"Perhaps. It depends on whether you will answer one question for me: your goggles, are they fixed or fused to your skin?"

Cricket laughs and claps his hands together. "That's all? You are silly, Mr Wayne. If I tell you, can I have trifle?"

"I will consider it."

The assassin reaches behind his head before effortlessly slipping the goggles off and presenting us with his eyes. It becomes immediately clear that his need for the goggles is not to conceal his identity. He has the tell-tale eye-shine of those who have a tapetum lucidum, otherwise known as natural night-vision. Judging from how sensitive he seems to the cave's lighting system his goggles are a necessity for daily life. Why he wears them at night is another matter. At least I can now confirm his ethnicity is not Chinese as Tim speculated. He is European, if his eye shape and bone structure are reliable indicators. The reflective nature of his eyes makes identifying colour difficult, but I believe they are green.

"They just naturally stick to my skin." He says, blinking myopically before putting them back on. "Trifle now?"

"That was the arrangement. Damian?" We retreat out of earshot. "What do you think?"

"You mean aside from the fact that acquiescing to his every demand is a poor way of building his trust?" The boy says scathingly.

"He has an idea of torture in his mind. By distorting that vision, we are better placed to exploit him for intelligence. We have already learned more about him than Tim or Cassandra, or any global intelligence agency, ever has before." I counter only for him to scoff.

"What have we learned, Father? That he can use a knife and fork? That he likes Eton Mess? That he bested the League in combat? Who hasn't done that in our family?"

"We have learned he is educated, of European ancestry, and likely either has a natural mutation in his genome or has been artificially altered in some way. We know he is left-footed, but right-handed and that his hair colour is naturally silver, not dyed."

"What possible significance is this cretin's hair colour?"

"Silver hair is a by-product of having too little melanin in the bloodstream."

"He's not an albino, Father."

"I never said he was. I was simply stating that the fact he is so pale and his hair lacking any real pigment points to a melanin deficiency in his cells. It may be a heredity condition in his family lineage, one we can trace." I suggest only to be met with an eye roll.

"To what end, Father? What is the purpose of any of this? I appreciate as a scientist, you wish to understand his biological make-up and how his abilities can be countered, but why treat him as anything else but a laboratory specimen? Why let him be conscious at all? It would be far better to keep him fully sedated until your analysis is complete. Call it the ultimate safety measure. Not only can you perform all manner of scans, take tissue and hair samples and examine his eyes in finite detail, you can also prepare him for transfer to a secure holding facility in the future..." Damian trails off. I see the realisation in his eyes at the exact moment he sees the compassion in mine. He immediately shakes his head in disagreement. "No, Father. This one cannot be housebroken. You cannot turn Cricket."

"Can I at least attempt it first, Son? He is the same age as you and has clearly endured a similar upbringing. You have come around to my method of working. If we can understand this boy, perhaps we can make him an asset instead of an adversary." I say with what I imagine to be a plausible argument for his rehabilitation. My son is wholly unconvinced.

"Father, I abstain from killing because I love you. You are my centre and the reason I have the motivation and reason to adapt my methodology. Cricket clearly has no centre. He probably never did. You cannot become his centre." Damian says stiffly. I fold my arms.

"Why?"

"Because he only respects himself. Regardless of my opinion on others, I have always respected you, because you are my father. I owe my superior genes and intelligence to you. Cricket owes you nothing but a thrashing for locking him in a cage against his will." The boy is adamant in his outlook on our guest. I can see that well enough. But he is always stubborn. Although his argument is also predicated on logic and plausibility, I feel there is still room to work. I glance back over to Cricket who is now receiving his raspberry trifle through the delivery slot by Alfred's steady hands.

"Shall we make a deal? If I make no real progress with him in a week, then I will act as you suggest and deliver him to the relevant agencies for safekeeping. Does that strike you as fair?" I say without taking my eyes off the Fish Tank as the exchange of Wellington for trifle is made seamlessly. I hear the boy gift me a deflated sigh.

"I doubt it will take you seven days to find him unsuitable for reconditioning, Father, but try if you must."

"Excellent."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I know this is sooner than perhaps many were expecting, but I feel buoyed by the praise the opening chapter received to publish another.**

 **This chapter is broken into three sections: first Bruce laments his injuries received from Cricket, then Damian visits Cricket for a little tete-a-tete exchange, and finally Bruce goes to visit his captive and try to coax information out of him whilst divulging details of his own.**

 **First Bruce's POV, then Damian's and then Bruce's again.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Cricket 2**

The morning brings the soreness I expected. Cricket hit me more than seventy times last night, the majority of them aimed at vital areas and designed to inflict as much pain as possible. Now my adrenaline has worn off, I finally learn the extent of my punishment. It is an effort to get out of bed and shower, but my discomfort becomes tolerable enough to transit downstairs where I find Alfred already cooking breakfast.

"Good morning, Alfred." I say whilst sitting at the breakfast island with a wince.

"Good morning, Sir." The old man says turning from his pan long enough to drop seven different pills in my waiting hand. "Are you suffering badly, Master Bruce?" He asks turning his attentions back to the stove.

"He could have done far worse." I respond swallowing the pills without water, a skill I mastered very early in my career. "Have you checked on him this morning?"

"Your prisoner is still asleep. After checking back over the feed, it appears he has been asleep all night."

"No nocturnal chirping then?" I inquire only for my companion to snort.

"Not that I could hear on the microphone, Sir. May I ask how we are going to analyse him, now he is...checked-in? Knock-out gas?"

"I am hoping it does not come to that. I want to avoid sedating him if possible." I say as I watch him plate my scrambled egg-whites. I hear him sigh.

"I am afraid I cannot conceive of any other way to coerce him into cooperating. To take the samples you require, it is necessary to enter his personal space. From what I can gather, the only thing keeping him from murdering us is a Perspex wall. If we were to eliminate that, I doubt he would need prompting." Alfred says setting the plate down in front of me with cutlery. He then instinctively reaches for the coffee pot and begins to pour my usual order by rote.

"At this stage, that is true. However, I was thinking more of asking him to take the samples we need himself and then pass them to us." I say sipping my coffee as the old man returns to the kitchen sideboard to prepare my porridge and whey protein infusion.

"That will only grant you DNA samples, Sir. The likelihood of his DNA matching any on our database is slim to none. An MRI or CAT scan would require a level of trust that we simply cannot reach within a week." Alfred says, inserting himself as the voice of reason and devil's advocate for my intentions simultaneously. I anticipated as much and am grateful for his pragmatism.

"He's still wearing the magnetic locks. We could tether the control system to the cave's security protocols to eliminate the risk of him seizing the remote from us. In the event of any hostile action, the magnets would activate, pinning him in place." I suggest as my porridge is set to the left of my plate. Alfred looks unconvinced with these measures.

"I want to point out that no plan is fool-proof. I would strongly advise you to use fast-acting sleeping gas or some other derivative to conduct your tests. Do not risk further injury by allowing your compassion to get the better of you. We cannot even be sure he is a child at this stage. He could be almost anything."

"I realise that. But I believe he is a child and that he can be changed if given the right incentive to do so." I am adamant on this point. The old man puts down the final plate of my meal, half a freshly pitted avocado and offers a sympathetic smile.

"Perhaps with a few years of specialist help, he could change. But a week? He says making sure I hear his lack of faith in this plan. I do understand his incredulity. But just because it is easier not to try to reform Cricket, it does not mean we should take the less difficult path.

"I feel he only needs one reason to change. Is Damian up yet, Alfred?"

"Yes, Sir. He has gone to wake our guest."

 **Damian**

Father is an idiot. His inane compulsion to save the lowest and most reprehensible scum from a swift death has always been a problem, but one he controls by not taking them home for therapy. Now he has crossed the line from obsession into lunacy. Here is one of the deadliest killers in the world, period. He has murdered more than one-hundred people in less than two-and-a-half years, a number that would prove difficult for even the most experienced assassins to manage. And those are the ones we know of. Operating out of Hong Kong means his body count is likely much higher and many of his kills will have gone unreported. And what does Father do?

Feed him trifle.

He wouldn't do that with Deadshot or Zsasz, both of whom have similar numbers and levels of indifference to their crimes. Sometimes I think Father's weakness is not compassion, but merely children. He seems to see one and just want to help them, regardless of their character, or distinct lack of it. I realise the hypocrisy of such a statement coming from me, especially considering how obtuse I was in the beginning. But I am the exception, rather than the rule. I have seen Cricket's work. His level of violence when killing exceeds my own by a wide margin. That points to a love of violence, rather than a compulsion or need, something that is intrinsic...and immutable.

Still, I like distractions, no matter how ludicrous they seem. Right now, I'm watching him sleep in the bedroom of his cells. I have never had much interest in entomology, the study of insects, but am willing to indulge with this cricket. I tap on the glass repeatedly until he wakes up. The lighting inside the cell has been reduced to shroud the space in darkness. When he opens his eyes, it looks as though two green lights are floating on a black sea. I find it oddly mesmerising.

"This is supposed to be for real criminals, not cowards like you." I say whilst leaning against the glass. I watch him leave the single bed and walk towards me. It is only when he strays into the light that I see him properly. He is wearing white boxers, but nothing more. It is something of an eye-opener.

His bare skin is covered with scars. None of them look accidental or easy to overcome. They look like my scars, the product of a lifetime of fighting private wars. I try counting his visible knife wounds. They number...thirteen. Impressive. He can be hurt. This is gratifying. He leans against the glass in the same manner I am, and smiles.

"Nice pyjamas." He says casting his weird eyes over me. "Can I have some like those? I feel silly only having my work clothes to wear all the time."

"I would not grow too comfortable here. My father only wishes to examine you from a scientific perspective. Once he is done, we will turn you over to the authorities. You will answer for your crimes." I tell him in no uncertain terms. He does not seem to be listening. Instead, he is angling his head in what appears to be an effort to see down my top.

"Your bullet wound looks more interesting than mine." He says before indicating a circular scar on his upper left leg. "They only hit muscle. What did yours damage?"

"Nothing I cannot live without."

Cricket laughs at this. "You're very funny. Are you saying you don't have a heart?"

"I am saying my wounds are none of your concern."

"Show me. I want to see how close the bullet hit."

"You are the one in a zoo, not me."

"If you're embarrassed by it – or your body – I understand. Not everyone can be a warrior." He says with a smug grin I want to punch off his face. I'm _not_ a warrior? I have never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. I pull my pyjama top over my head to show him how wrong he is.

"You should be embarrassed. You're so scrawny I'm surprised a strong breeze hasn't knocked you over already." I retort. I am correct too. Despite his lethal skillset, Cricket's physique is woefully slight in comparison with mine. I see his ribs, but no sign of abdominal development or any muscularity beyond that of an average child. Pathetic.

"Muscle only slows you down in combat. Let me out of here and I'll prove it to you."

"Don't think I wouldn't like to. But I'm not an idiot."

"Really? Anyone who gets shot at point-blank range in the heart isn't exactly smart. I fancy you don't know that guns are dangerous? If one is pointing at you, you really ought to move." Cricket says in a transparent effort to rattle me. His condescendence aside, I have no reason to release him from confinement. Not if I want to live.

"How old were you when you made your first kill?" I ask him to change the tone of conversation. He shrugs his shoulders.

"You go first." He says whilst breathing on the glass. "Write your age on the glass and then I'll do the same."

"Fine." I humour him and breath on the glass to give myself a canvas to work with. I write a four backwards so he can read it. He replies with a three in the same fashion. I frown at this claim. "You killed someone at three?"

"I was given someone to stab in the eye. It was a game they played." He explains without any shame. It sounds familiar enough to me, and honest. I am honest in return.

"My mother had me kill a traitor to the League, to prove to my Grandfather I was worthy of his attentions." I say finding the sudden release of my past misdeeds somehow cathartic. Cricket's eyes shine.

"Where did you stab him?" He asks with genuine interest.

"The throat. Mother liked it when their eyes bulged."

"Did you like killing people?"

"I liked people being afraid of me more than I liked killing. I only killed as a show of power. I know you kill because you like it more than anything else." I admit only for my companion to giggle in clear disagreement.

"No, you don't. You don't even know my name, Damian Wayne. I wouldn't go around guessing why I do things without knowing the first thing about me."

"Your name is irrelevant, as is your past. I know you like killing because I have watched you kill. I can read your body language as you beat people to death, can see the pleasure it gives you. You're the best hand-to-hand combatant I have ever seen, almost peerless. But that is all you are. If it were possible to extract that ability, there would be nothing else to find inside you. Other than your lust for violence, you are completely hollow, Cricket. A void of nothingness that hides behind a pretty shell."

"Tell me how that makes me any different than you."

"Because my violence does not define me. I may have been brought up by the League and indoctrinated, but I find comfort in other facets of life beyond the battlefield. I have friends and relationships that make me more than just a soldier looking to validate his existence. I doubt you will ever have the same." I expect this to resonate with him, even if it is only on the most basic level of awareness. Because he is one-dimensional and empty. And he deserves to be alone because of that. They all do. But he's still smiling.

"You can pretend you're better than me if you like. But if being a soldier means so little to you, why show me your scars like you're proud of them? Why tell me about your first kill in so much detail if you didn't like killing? You told me more about your first time than I did about mine. You were boasting. We're the same, Damian. Which means if you think you can change, then I can too. You're just afraid of not being the only one who can overcome your past." Cricket says with far greater perception than I gave him credit for. He is utterly wrong in his assessment, but that he tried to analyse me is commendable for what is essentially a blunt instrument of death.

"Prove you want to change. Tell me your name. Your _real_ name." I challenge him, mindful that his eyes make it difficult to tell whether what he says is truthful or not. He breathes on the glass and writes one letter at a time. When the opening sequence is D-A-N, I feel as though he is about to test my patience further by trying to be funny. Instead he spells something eerily reminiscent of my own name.

"Dante?" I check having read the five letters several times. Cricket nods and rests his forehead against the glass.

"Like Dante's..."

"Inferno." I finish. "Do you like the Divine Comedy?" I ask to see whether Father's idea of education and my idea are at opposite ends of the spectrum. I watch him briefly consider.

"Only Inferno. Mr Alighieri's idea of Hell is very neat. Especially the way everyone is punished for their sins by being tortured with the _opposite_ of that sin." He answers to prove his knowledge base includes Italian classic literature as well as fighting mastery. Begrudgingly, perhaps we are somewhat alike.

"I find that fitting too. A punishment should fit a crime." I say as Cricket breathes on the glass and begins to draw something with his finger.

"And is your life a fitting punishment for your crimes, Damian? You murder people so, naturally you get to live here with your dad and fight crime?" He asks upon finishing a crude drawing of a hangman's noose with a stick figure inside it. When he adds a cape, I know it is meant to represent me. I narrow my eyes in distaste.

"I am not being punished. I am atoning for my sins." I state. He smiles wider and begins to wipe away his drawing.

"Then so am I. Maybe I didn't plan to, but I'm not so empty inside that I can't adapt to a new situation." He replies finally pushing off the glass and turning his back to me. I audibly scoff.

"I don't believe you for a second."

"Good. I like a challenge."

 **Bruce**

Dante. He claims his name is Dante, from the Italian and meaning 'to endure'. After appraising the extent of his scars and their origins, I believe it a fitting title, whether it is true or not. I thought Damian's presence would help us gather more information on our captive. I share my son's scepticism that Cricket's desire to change at present is genuine. It is less than twenty-four hours into his incarceration. Nobody turns over a new leaf that soon, especially not someone of this boy's profile. Just reviewing security footage of last night's assault in the hotel is proof of that. I see no reluctance to paralyse some of those men, no secret pain when giving one a brain haemorrhage by slamming their head into the wall with maximum torque on a kick. The only thing I see is his delight in crippling other people, other human beings, for the rest of their lives. Nowhere is this more exemplified than when he giggles and boots one prone guard in the ribs twenty times after everyone else is unconscious.

It goes on for three minutes and he is deliberately slow in delivering his kicks. His detachment in that moment is chilling. But Damian's attitudes to life were not so far removed from this child's when he first entered my life. He also delighted in hurting people beyond what was required. Now he has balance. I am hoping to help Cricket find the same. He may be more in Jason's mould than Damian's in terms of what end-product is achievable, but I believe something can change for the better.

Cricket's arguments as to why he and Damian were alike show he does not consider himself apart from the rest of the world. His desire to be recognised as more than a killer is not as clearly defined but does suggest he is aware of an existence beyond murder and mayhem that Lawton and Zsasz have never grasped. It is tenuous, but it exists. However, recent developments have unearthed another problem in reforming the boy.

It is almost ten-thirty when I journey down to the cave. Cricket enjoyed his eggs Benedict and orange juice, Alfred said. He is however still in his underwear. The old man and Damian both say this is because he wants clean clothes to wear. He is also refusing to shower because of the magnetic locks. As such, his mood has turned increasingly sour. When I approach the Fish Tank, I find he has retreated into the dark of the bedroom where he sits huddled in a corner with the bedsheets over his head.

"I understand you are protesting your inhumane treatment." I begin before clicking the remote in my pocket. Five audible whirrs follow. I watch his silhouette remove his restraints and throw them on the ground. This is likely a mistake, but I need to build some kind of trust between us for this to work. There has to be a measurable concession on my part. "I also have clean clothes for you to wear once you have showered, including fresh underwear. I was told you were a fan of cashmere and denim." I display the blue jeans and cream cashmere sweater in my hands, alongside colourful socks and polka dot boxer shorts. He does not even look up.

"I will pass them to you in exchange for some more cooperation. I would like a hair sample and cotton swab of your inner cheek."

"No. Let me out. Now." He says curtly.

"You know I can't. You cannot be trusted."

"Let me out now or I'll kill all of you later when I do escape."

"I can see you are not used to your liberties being curtailed. I understand your frustrations. I have been held captive many times. However, the way I was treated pales in comparison to your treatment. I will not torture you, degrade or humiliate you. I will not deprive you of food, clothing or toilet facilities. I will treat you as well as a boy your age deserves. If you wish for entertainment, I will provide you with video games, board games, books or films to watch, read and play as you see fit. If you wish to exercise, I will not hinder you. If you want to write, materials will be provided..."

"I am a mass murderer, Mr Wayne. I'm not your pet." He interrupts with more than a hint of bitterness. With displays like this, I have no reason to believe he is anything other than a child. I only fear what terror his victims must experience when he throws a tantrum like this when he is working.

"Did you kill your parents, Dante?" I ask.

I catch sight of his luminous eyes in the gloom. He finds this line of enquiry worthy of his attention, it seems. His answer is definitive. "No."

"But they were killed when you were young? When you were a toddler, or later in your life?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Where are they buried? _Are_ they buried or cremated or...?"

"I don't remember."

"Do you remember their names?"

"No. I think...no."

"Do you know what happened to my parents?"

"I know some of it, I think."

"Would you like to hear how they died?"

I watch in silence as the boy's shadowy mass emerges from the dark and crosses through the cell's various partitions until he is seated back at the chair and table. The bedsheets still shroud his features, but I see his eyes staring into mine. "Yes, please."

I grab a nearby chair, sit in front of the table so we are face-to-face through the glass, and relive the night of my parents' murder for him in minute and intricate detail. I do not dwell too much on the events prior to the gunman's appearance. I know this boy will be more interested in where they were shot and how they died. He gives no guidelines as I tell the story I have relived nightly for more than thirty years. He does not interrupt or give any indication my narrative displeases him. He simply listens. When I finish with my eight-year-old self, kneeling in a pool of my mother's blood, vainly trying to gather her pearls in the dirt and crying, I watch him muse on my story in silence.

"That's a nice story, Mr Wayne." He says to confound me. There is no point being angry with his opinion, since I do not yet understand it. I clear my throat.

"In what way, Dante?"

"It has a happy ending."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow your meaning. Surely it has a bad ending."

"No, a bad ending would be you going potty and being sent to a sanatorium. Instead, you dress as a bat and fight crime with your son. That's a happy ending. Aren't you happy?" He asks. I believe I see how his mind interprets the world now. There is definite skewered logic to his thinking, even if it places his values off-kilter to everyone else's. I nod.

"Sometimes. Do you feel better?"

"Yes. I think I'd like a shower now."

"Will you give me the DNA samples I want?"

"If you still want them." He says before pulling back the sheet covering his head and plucking half-a-dozen silver hairs from his scalp. He holds them out for my inspection. "Is that enough?"

"I need a cheek swab as well. I will send the tube through with your clothes. Kindly return it after your shower. You've brushed your teeth with the materials provided already?" I check.

He smiles at me in that way children often do when displaying proof of having completed a set task and seeking approval for their efforts. His teeth are spotless. "Yes. Electric ones are better though."

"I'm afraid you cannot have anything with a battery. Do you understand why?"

"Yes. You don't want me to find a way to escape using it."

"Correct. I know it might sound absurd, but you are highly resourceful and I do not wish to take chances."

"I wouldn't give you anything either. But then, I wouldn't make the mistake of letting you live to begin with." Cricket says casually in getting to his feet and padding to the delivery slot. "Clothes please."

I do not know what is normal for him. Without a baseline, it is difficult to tell whether my civil treatment is having any effect on him. Judging from what little I've seen of his mood when exposed to unfamiliar stimuli, I believe his opinion of me is shifting slightly in my favour. I pass the clothing and test kit through to him. He regards the clothes and considers.

"You're my new high score, by the way." He says as if it is a big compliment.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Oh, you should play this game: It's how I stop assassinations from being too boring. I count how many hits it takes to kill someone. If they're tough, I get a high score, but if they're weak, I get a brilliant one. I can win the game by getting the lowest score possible, but the target can get a bigger win by making me use more hits to finish them off. It's such a wonderful challenge, really makes the whole thing more competitive for me. Before yesterday, my lowest score was obviously one, which I call a 'hole-in-one', like in golf? And my highest ever score was fifty-three. No, it was fifty-two. But now it's eighty-three! You made me look so stupid. I was actually trying to kill you after you made my eardrums bleed too, but you just wouldn't die. Even when I knew I had you ready to go, I was a little scared you'd live through it."

"Trust me, I doubt I would've lasted much longer." I offer after a few brief moments to gather my thoughts. That game is beyond bad taste. He shrugs.

"You lasted long enough to get me here."

"Yes, but now I'm foolishly freed you of your restraints. Letting you out is now a matter of faith rather than common sense."

"It wasn't foolish, Mr Wayne." He tells me with a smile. "It was smart. How else would you get me to trust you?"

"I am certain there were other methods."

"Not that would've worked." He says before unscrewing the test tube, taking out the swab and running it on the inside of his mouth. "Here's some trust in return." He adds putting the tube and his hair sample into a now empty delivery slot. "I shall enjoy my shower now. Thank you for being nice."

I want to believe there is some degree of empathy inside him, no matter how slight it may be. I need some foundation to build on, otherwise this entire enterprise to destined to fail. It is strange how ordinary he can seem sometimes. Knowing that this skinny child is responsible for the deaths of dozens of people is not helped by his blunt honesty on the matter. Every time he reminds me of how much he enjoys killing, I feel my confidence of success in this venture take a hit. But it has only been one day. I still have six to instil a change. It is more than enough, even with Cricket.

I grant him privacy and proceed to run his samples through every DNA database on the planet, hoping for even a partial match to appear and give me some clue to his origins. As expected, the search yields no results. Neither he, nor his parents, nor any of his relatives are in any database. I then map his genome, looking for anomalies that might explain his night vision or almost supernatural fighting abilities. I have more luck here. Although nothing in his genetic code alludes to natural night vision, he does have an extra sequence that could explain why he can move so fast.

He possesses six times the amount of fast muscle-twitch fibres as I do. It means he can accelerate quicker than almost any other animal on Earth and also maintain a high-intensity workload for longer before fatiguing. That genetic gift, augmented with superior fighting technique, anticipation and a high mind-body connection could be why he was able to best someone as complete as Cassandra, and outclass both myself and Tim with ease.

No.

It's still not enough of an advantage. We have bested opponents with super-speed before. He must have something more unique. It cannot all be talent. No child, no matter their upbringing, is that good. I have the strongest suspicion the answer is linked to his eyes. Perhaps...perhaps if his fast-twitch fibres were combined with some ability to detect human electrical fields. Such an augmentation might be sufficient to help him overpower any adversary, no matter their skill-level. But I require a far more in-depth scan to confirm such a theory.

When I return, he is dressed in the clothes provided but has taken to wearing his welder's goggles again as he re-examines his surroundings. I wonder if perhaps they contain some sort of scanning or imaging technology. Computer information fed through the goggles could also provide the slight advantage he would require to surmount all contenders. Fortunately, the Fish Tank emits a field that de-activates all technology not attuned to its set frequency. Even if he did possess some form of artificial aid, it cannot help him escape here.

"Do you like your clothes, Dante?" I ask, shadowing his path around the perimeter of the cage.

"Fine, thank you, Mr Wayne." He says dragging his hand over the glass as he walks. "Your son thinks you're mad to try and change me."

"So does Alfred."

"Why don't you agree with them?"

"You're not the first murderer I have reformed." I tell him as we complete one loop of the perimeter and begin a second.

He considers. "Isn't one of your Robins now the Red Hood?"

"You know about him?"

"Yes. He's visited Hong Kong before. He doesn't like my employers very much."

"And who are they?"

"Generally, anyone with a problem they can't fix."

"Such as?" I prompt him and hoping he is more communicative about specifics of his life rather than his taste in food or attire. He looks up in thought.

"Uh, triads mostly. Sometimes small business owners hire me to kill triads, but mostly, it's the other way around." He responds to give me something I can work with.

"So, do you speak Chinese?" I inquire as we pass through the sleeping quarters for the second time. He is still dragging his hand over the glass.

"Of course. I live and work out of Hong Kong. I have to speak Chinese. _Do you speak Chinese?_ " He asks having put his last question in Standard Chinese to test me.

 _"I speak Mandarin better, but I speak enough Standard Chinese to get by."_ I respond to earn a smile for my efforts. His accent is near-perfect. Mine is terrible and we both know it

 _"When you're on a mission?"_ He says to probe me instead of the opposite.

 _"Yes, but I have not been to Hong Kong in some time."_

"I can tell; your accent's rusty. But it's very good for an American." He tells me in English before stopping in place. We are back at the delivery slot. "You don't want to stop me from killing, do you, Mr Wayne?" He says apparently having grasped my intentions without any obvious cues.

"No. I already know I can't. I was hoping to instead shift your focus onto those who deserve punishment." I reply.

He grins at me. "Like you did the Red Hood?"

"That's right. It is the lesser of two evils. He does not belong in a prison. I believe you don't either. Not at ten years old."

His grin grows wider. "I think I like you, Mr Wayne." I incline my head.

"I believe I am beginning to warm to you as well, Dante. But I make no guarantees this will not end in your incarceration. I only promise I will try to convince you there is a better way to live. The onus is on you to listen."

He nods his head enthusiastically. "Then I promise to listen, Mr Wayne. As long as I can continue to kill people, I'll listen to absolutely everything you have to say."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Four days have elapsed. Father and son have differing opinions on how their project is progressing. Things take an unexpected turn. Now set to run six chapters. Damian and Bruce's POV.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Cricket 3**

 **Damian**

Father built this virtual reality simulator to allow us to test our combat skills against a variety of opponents and adversaries pre-programmed into the computer. We can enact worst-case scenarios with such scum as The Joker, Freeze, Professor Pyg and even my own mother and grandfather. It allows us to develop strategies that would otherwise take weeks to perfect in the real world, and at significantly greater cost. Now we are perfecting strategies against Cricket, but in reverse. Instead of us fighting him in a virtual plain, he is fighting us in cyberspace. We are watching his camera feed and monitoring his vitals and stress levels, seeing how much pressure it takes to break him down.

However, despite the difficulty of the simulation, and the fact we have purposely imbued our avatars with strength, speed and reflexes greater than either of us possess, Cricket is still dominating the action.

"Increase the speed again, Father." I say as he dodges multiple strikes from both our counterparts before delivering a strike that breaks my avatar's nose. That is hit number twenty he has scored on the simulated Robin in six minutes.

"I can't, Son. The speed is now set at maximum. He is fighting us at nearly six-times our normal speed. This is almost like fighting two versions of The Flash simultaneously."

"His heart rate hasn't even climbed above one-twenty, Father. How is that even possible?"

"It would appear this is a game of reflexes and timing to him, more like a video game on the highest difficulty setting, but not a legitimate contest. His brain is firing neurons faster than the computer can match in computational speed. He is beating us to the punch every time as a consequence." Father remarks as Cricket breaks at least eight of Batman's ribs with two elbow strikes. I cannot help but suck my teeth.

"We can't ever let him out of that cage, Father. If neither of us can beat him in such insane stipulations..."

"We do not need to beat him in hand-to-hand combat, Son. I did not, and yet here he is."

We both watch as Cricket kicks Robin hard enough across the face to snap his neck. He then punches Batman through the Kevlar chest plate with sufficient force and accuracy to stop his heart. Both avatars lie dead at his feet. "Yes, Father. Here he is...killing us in cold blood."

"That was super fun!" We hear the assassin crow from his cage. He is still wearing his headset as he lies on the bed, apparently wanting another round. "Have you got anything harder, Mr Wayne?"

He has engaged in twelve rounds of combat thus far. The very first simulation pitted him against fifty street-level thugs. He overcame the number in nine minutes. I have never managed under eleven. However, I never killed anyone. He killed them all. It made it much easier. He then ran through our entire criminal roster, including inflated versions of Joker, Freeze and Killer Croc in an arena no bigger than a cell at Arkham. He massacred them too.

"Can you beat us without killing us...or causing permanent damage? Or is that too much of a challenge?" I call out snidely. I hear him scoff in reply.

"Hah, that's easy. Run it again and I'll show you why."

We run the same scenario and watch him take scarcely eight minutes to disable the equivalent of Batman and Robin on Venom. He still breaks bones, but they're all clean breaks that will heal up easily. His finish on my avatar, a two-footed dropkick to the face after countering an eighteen strike-chain, was the epitome of showboating. I still find myself smiling at his gall.

"There you are, you'll both live this time. Do you have anyone else for me to fight?" Cricket says like he has done us some colossal favour in sparing our lives. I look over at my father.

"Do we have enough data, Father?"

"Perhaps. Dante, do you think you could beat yourself in combat?"

"If I needed to. Am I the next level up? Am I the boss of the game? I think I ought to be."

"Let's see if you can defeat 'the boss' then. Ready?"

"Uh-huh. Let's go, Mr Wayne."

Even programming the computer simulation with all Cricket's fighting abilities and move-set will likely not be enough. If the computer is not fast enough, he will beat it for pace. It takes him less than four minutes to paralyse his opponent from the neck down by using a fighting style we have not seen him implement before now. He then takes great delight in gouging both eyes out before almost casually stomping his foe to death. "Fatality!" He shouts out in an echo of Mortal Kombat before laughing. "Shall I rip out his spine for good measure, Mr Wayne? That's what they do in the video games."

"I don't think there is any need for that. The 'game' is over."

"Okay. Hey, what's for dinner this evening? I really liked the venison steak we had last night."

He has no problem discounting whatever horrid thing he has just done in favour of asking for the menu. It has been nearly four days since Father brought him here. In that time, all I have seen is proof that Cricket is the most dangerous killer on the planet and nothing more. Whatever ethics or morals my father believes he can instil in him are proving beyond his grasp. I watched the old man try to give him a lesson on the importance of ethical treatment and having a moral centre. It was painful. All Cricket did was nod and appear to write notes on the paper he had been provided. When Father finished and asked if he understood, the boy presented him with a picture of Batman holding Joker's decapitated head.

"This is too much, right?" He said, smiling like a proud idiot. "You'd want it, so he was still alive, but in indescribable agony. Because...that's ethic...ethically better. Huh, Mr Wayne?"

And Father calls such infantile statements 'progress'.

"Tonight, we are having slow-roasted lamb with seasonal vegetables and a rich mint sauce." Father says to snap me out of my thoughts. Cricket's reaction to this is to yank off the eight-million-dollar headset and run up to the glass like a dog in a pound.

"I love lamb! Can I have seconds tonight, Mr Wayne? I'll tell you anything you want if I can have second helpings of lamb!" He announces, practically pawing at the glass in his excitement. Pathetic doesn't even begin to describe such desperate behaviour. I see my father smile at this display of enthusiasm, despite what must be a nagging doubt all of this is simply an act. He walks from the control console to the door of the cage. I then watch in absolute horror as he opens it with a key press and gestures for Cricket to step outside.

 **Bruce**

We need to accelerate the process. This is the biggest danger I have ever subjected myself to. I am still managing my injuries. Cricket is almost certainly at peak fitness again. If the mood took him, and if all his pandering behaviour thus far has been a ruse, he could kill me right now. It would be simple enough. The boy looks completely flummoxed by this change in attitude on my part and is tentative in approaching the open doorway. He reaches forward and waves his hand through the space, obviously not convinced of my generosity.

I have learned much more about our guest in recent days. Perhaps the most important information I have deduced is the identity of his employer and the faction responsible for setting him upon Karen Wu. They call themselves the Silver Fang Boys and operate chiefly from Hong Kong, with several forays into mainland China to conduct other clandestine operations against high-profile politicians. Normally, it is blackmail or what I would deem 'light' torture in order to persuade them to change a policy or stance. Cricket divulged the gang name with very little prompting. I strongly believe that, given what I have seen so far of his personality, he has no allegiances to anyone, even the people who pay him for his services. The boy will do almost anything for pudding, which is a terrifying prospect. What did they even pay him in, custard? It doesn't strain credibility as much as I would like. Cricket runs mainly on sugar and his own enthusiasm for inflicting violence.

Despite this being the case, he has displayed enough subtle adjustments in his behaviour to suggest I am not going to regret my decision to release him without a very short leash. It was not an easy decision to make, nor anything approaching impulsive. But it has been made. And, whatever the consequences are, good or bad, I will accept them.

"Would you like to join us for dinner this evening, Dante? There's plenty of room at the table."

"I want to...but I'm not sure if you're pulling a nasty trick on me."

"Take my hand." I say holding it out and inviting him to do anything from taking it to breaking it. He very slowly and deliberately takes hold of it. I then gently pull him through the doorway which closes soundlessly behind his exit. He shakes his hand loose and presses both of them against the glass, peering in instead of out.

"Am I not a zoo animal anymore, Mr Wayne?"

"You never were to begin with. I think you can be trusted not to kill us. Perhaps I am wrong though..."

"Damian wants you to be, even if it means me killing you, Mr Wayne. Because then that proves he was right and you were wrong." Cricket informs me with more than a trace of amusement. He turns from the cage. "But you're not wrong. Not at all. I like you. And I like your son too. I love your butler though! That pineapple upside-down cake he made for dessert last night was the best thing I've ever tasted!"

"Tonight, he is promising Eton Mess. Shall we go upstairs and see?"

Cricket looks down at his socked feet. "Can I have shoes? Is it far to the dining room?"

I produce a pair of classic white tennis shoes that Damian refuses to wear because they are 'bargain-store chic'. They are actually Ralph Lauren and cost one-hundred-and-twenty dollars a pair. They were meant for Dick when he was young. He never wore them either, because they were 'too expensive for walking'. Hopefully this boy will be grateful for them. "Will these suffice?" I ask him.

"They're very nice. Can you help me put them on? There's nowhere for me to sit and I don't want my socks getting too dirty." He asks innocently enough. Here is another test of nerve. I incline my head.

"Of course. Please lift your foot." I crouch down with the toes of his left foot lined up perfectly with the bridge of my nose. I slip the shoe on without incident and he sets it back down. I then fasten the laces for him to strengthen my resolve and test his restraint. I am open to attack. My guard is down. But the actions are repeated on his right foot and I am still in one piece. I bow his right shoe and stand back up. He smiles.

"Were you scared? Were you scared I'd kick you and break your face into a jigsaw puzzle?" He says in a playful tone that contrasts the legitimacy of the threat. I answer honestly.

"Yes."

"I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. But I didn't. I didn't think it was...the ethical thing to do." He says beaming at me in obvious pride that he has remembered the word from our lessons. It is a small step, but it is a step towards my goal rather than away from it.

"You...are wholly correct, Dante. Thank you for your restraint. I greatly appreciate it." I reply to maintain my polite manner towards him. I have learned when afforded respect, the boy is far friendlier. This, again, is not dissimilar to Damian.

"Oh, you're welcome, Mr Wayne. I like you too much now to kick you when you're down. It's...silly." He tells me with a definitive nod at his assessment.

Before I can speak again, we are joined by Damian who looks both disgusted and appalled by my actions, as if I have ripped open Pandora's box whilst smiling about the evils being released. He stares at Cricket and folds his arms.

"You look ridiculous wearing my clothes with those stupid goggles." He comments acridly. Our guest smirks at him.

"That's not what you wanted to say. You're hoping I won't follow up on my threat to show you how heavy that physique of yours is in combat." Cricket tells him whilst standing toe-to-toe with the other boy to prove their height and dimensions are almost identical. I decide they are the same age, give or take a few months. Damian holds firm.

"Go ahead and try your luck." My son says. It is one of the most ill-advised retorts he has ever uttered. I cannot help but tense as Cricket decides on his next move.

"I don't need to. Your computer couldn't enhance you enough to challenge me, so you stand no chance. I've already killed you once. That's enough for me." The silver-haired boy declares with more restraint than I thought him capable of. It gives me renewed hope for the next few days. "How about a game of chess later? Your butler says you're brilliant."

Damian scoffs derisively. "Do you even know how to play?"

"Yes. I was taught in school. I enjoyed it very much." Cricket says. It seems he reads my son far better than Damian realises as he is lulled into an intellectual contest he feels certain of winning.

"Fine. After dinner, we will play, and I will educate you accordingly."

Cricket just smiles at him before clapping his hands in excitement. "Super. Super fun."

Dinner proves remarkably tame, given how bad my gamble could have turned out. I sit at the head of the table, flanked by both boys on either side. Alfred has lowered the ambient lighting so that our dinner guest can eat without sporting his eyewear. Cricket's entire dialogue consists of exclaiming how good the food is. Damian's efforts are made up of nothing but snide remarks and the suggestion that Cricket could eat garbage and think it gourmet. I decide not to direct the flow of conversation at all. I am more interested in how these two very unusual children interact with one another.

Damian has very little peer interaction. Since he already possesses the equivalent of a high school diploma, and would be wholly disinterested in conventional schooling, witnessing him interact with any child in his age-group is a fascinating sociological experiment. It would not be wrong to say Cricket is the closest thing to a peer my son will find in the world. They share far more than sound table manners and a perverse love of violence, if their evolving dialogue is anything to go by. Mortal Kombat is the subject that seems to bring them closer together. I have never played the game, but know from Dick that it is excessively violent, even for a video game. No wonder they both like it so much. I think I know where this conversation is inevitably leading.

After Eton Mess, a dessert Cricket claims to have enjoyed hundreds of times at his 'school', Damian abandons the idea of chess, in favour of confronting our new houseguest on the titular video game in his room. I watch them go with a strange sense of pride and bemusement. It is not often my ideas cut any ice with Damian, particularly when they involve murderous psychopaths, but this appears to be a rare exception. While I am still wary of Cricket's outlook on the world somehow destabilising the morality and restraint I have cultivated in Damian, I now believe the other boy's presence to be more positive than negative. Once they have left my sight, I am joined at the table by Alfred.

"Have you gone insane, Master Bruce?" The old man asks, almost immediately after sitting down.

"No, Alfred. I've not gone insane, thank you. I am merely testing a different tact with our guest."

"A different tact, would be something along lines of…I don't know, serving him chicken soup instead of tomato, not letting him out of a cage he was put in specifically to protect us from being brutally murdered, Master Bruce." Alfred retorts. This is not an encouraging start to a conversation, but I am willing to push on.

"He has been here for four days, Alfred. Bearing in mind that he tried to kill me the last time we did not have glass separating us, this lack of hostility on his part seems to be a giant leap forward in progress."

"Let me ask you this, Sir, if I were a terrible cook, do you honestly believe this child would be so docile in your presence?"

"No, Alfred. Are you happy now? Your trifle is the only thing keeping him from killing us all. Is that perhaps what you want me to admit? That your desserts can turn assassins into pacifists with their taste alone?" I inquire with more than a slight smile.

The old man does not look amused by my insinuations. But I cannot help but smile anyway. I was right, he was wrong. It is something of a first where rehabilitation is concerned. He clears his throat. "That boy is alone with your youngest son. Without any supervision. Can you honestly say you are comfortable with that notion, particularly considering how quickly Cricket could kill him?"

"Do you think Damian is going to antagonise the other boy into murdering him? _My_ son?" I say, still amused by the old man's ire at my light teasing.

Alfred rolls his eyes. "Do take this seriously, Master Bruce. Damian does say things that typically…do not go over very well with the majority of people he meets. Without glass between them, it seems like you are asking for fireworks."

"Alfred, Damian is not stupid enough to goad Cricket that far. He only really insults people he is wholly confident of beating in battle. Since we both know he can't best Cricket in combat, I doubt things will escalate to the point of body bags. Still, I suppose it can't hurt to check on them…"

 **Damian**

Five times. I have been beaten five consecutive times on Mortal Kombat without landing any hits whatsoever on my opponent. This has never happened before. When Dick and I used to play this, I never lost a fight. My streak before confronting Cricket stood at fifty-five wins and zero defeats. I thought my battle strategies were perfect, as were my tactics. I can only assume that he has been cheating. How else could he possibly defeat me so easily? What is he using? Cheat codes? Some form of sleight of hand that I am not seeing? Perhaps he is somehow unplugging my controller at the start of the fight and leaving me unable to move. Whatever he is doing, I want it to it stop. I am starting to get very, very angry with him and his underhanded tactics.

"I don't want to play anymore." I announce, trying not to slam my controller on the floor in front of him. He does not need to know how frustrated I am beneath the surface.

"We can play chess if you like. I'm getting bored too. This is far too easy." He replies in a tone that suggests he is completely oblivious to how deeply this cuts me. Too easy? I am too easy an opponent for him?

"I don't play chess with cheat…" I stop myself before articulating the end of that sentence. However, judging by the look on his face, I have already said too much. For a long few seconds, I genuinely believe he is going to execute a fatality of his own on my spine. I don't believe Mother would be willing to replace this one, if it were damaged. Then he laughs.

"You think I was cheating? I don't need to cheat! Cheating is….ethic…ethically wrong. So, I wouldn't do that. Because I'm an honourable person."

I stare at him as if he has suddenly grown a second head. Honourable person? He did just call himself an honourable person? He also used the word ethically, as if he has been using it all his life, when I know he only learnt of the concept the day before yesterday. I really want to scream in his face, and slap him repeatedly, but know I can't. He would kill me. Then I slap him anyway and jab a finger in his face.

"You are a murdering scumbag. You deserve to hung by your own intestines from the walls of this house as a warning of what happens to Batman's enemies. You do not deserve to wear _my_ sweaters and play _my_ video games and eat _my_ dessert with _my_ father in my home! I hate you. I hate you more than I have hated anyone, and that includes my grandfather." I have said all of this before I can even begin to close my mouth or realise what it means.

He responds my tilting his head to one side in curiosity. "You can't help yourself, can you? I think you say mean things to everyone, regardless of whether you like them or not. I thought letting you slap me, might make you less angry at losing." He says, devoid of any anger whatsoever.

I narrow my eyes at him. "You did not let me slap you."

"Of course, I did. You're slower than a tortoise to me. I would have time to use the toilet and maybe make a sandwich in the time it takes you to move your hand." He claims to completely oversell his own capabilities. It is pathetic. He is not the Flash.

"I bet it hurt though." I say only for him to shrug his shoulders.

"It stings, but it's nothing compared to what I could do to you. Would like to me to slap you and see what happens?"

"My father would not appreciate it if you injured me. He would definitely do worse than put you in a cage and feed you luxury food if you did." I say to caution him against doing anything more than just talk.

"I'll make you a deal. We can spar a little. You can throw punches and kicks and whatever else you want as hard and as fast as you want. I can only tap you on the cheek with an open-hand in reply. Two minutes. Let's see who lands the most hits. Are you ready?"

I throw a punch before he even finishes his question, but only find air. I am almost immediately answered by a light tap…on my right buttock. I stop moving. He grins at me.

"I thought…I thought you said…"

"I said I'd tap you on the cheek. Did you know you have four of them? This is funnier than touching your face, because you really don't want me to touch your arse."

"I'm not playing."

"Oh, you're giving up? You're not very good at fighting, are you?"

I lose my temper completely and start throwing strikes as fast and as hard as I possibly can. Two minutes comes and goes. I land nothing, hit nothing and have nothing to show for my efforts. In return, I distinctly felt over thirty individual taps to my posterior and an even distribution across both buttocks. To say I am roundly humiliated by his experience, would be to grossly undersell it. I only stop throwing punches because I am wholly out of breath. I do not want to look up, but I have to see if my attempts have had any visible impact on him. He looks completely unbothered by me and the last two minutes.

"I've never smacked another boy's bum before. It was rather fun. What did you think?"

"I have no opinion on the matter. I think…I think maybe you should leave now. We're done playing games for tonight."

"I was only teasing you. You don't need to get upset. I don't often play with other boys. It's very nice to be able to play with you like this. I'm sorry if you weren't having fun." He says with more honesty than I thought him capable of. I don't like being blindsided like that, but I do see that, regardless of his total idiocy when it comes to morality and the study of ethics, he does want to make a connection with me. He has gone about the matter in completely the wrong way, of course, but I suppose I didn't just invite him to my room to be my next victim on Mortal Kombat. I…liked the idea of interacting with someone more like me than anyone else I have ever encountered. Even after being…chastised by him, I still don't want him to leave.

"I apologise for slapping you, even if you let me do it. I'm…not used to not having my own way with things." I say, quite graciously I think given the circumstances.

"Your scars say you don't have your own way a lot."

"How are you even scarred at all? No-one has been able to hit you, even once, since you started killing people. So, how are you covered in scars and gunshot wounds? I saw security footage from an assassination in Hong Kong last spring. Eight men started shooting at you simultaneously in a narrow corridor. You did not even get grazed with a bullet, much less injured by one. It doesn't make sense."

"I didn't always used to be so fast. Or tough. Would you like me to tell you a story about my scars?" He asks to open the possibility of gathering significant intelligence on his background and upbringing. I think I would like to hear the story anyway though. I'm curious to see if they're more interesting than how I acquired my 'collection' of unexpected body art.

"I…"

"Damian? Is everything alright, Son?" Father asks from the doorway. Apparently it seems he has designated my room as having an open-door policy, despite the fact I have agreed to nothing of the sort.

"Father, kindly get out. I'm in the middle of something. You might try knocking before barging into my room in future." I say, hoping he does not take it the wrong way.

The old man just smiles and nods. "I see. Well, it is getting late now, Son. Am I to infer that Dante is going to…'sleepover' in your room tonight? Or would you prefer he goes back to his cage?"

Father has asked me this deliberately knowing that Cricket can hear us both. The pressure is on me to either deny him further liberty or admit that I would like him to stay longer. Either way, a part of me will die inside. Since psychological damage is less painful than having an organ removed by an angry assassin, I opt for the latter.

"He…is staying…in my….room…tonight, Father."

"I see. Well, in that case, would you boys care for some ice-cream before bed?"

I do not quite know when this situation devolved from trying to rehabilitate a deadly killer into a slumber party with the same person, but I find I am too bemused by what is transpiring to answer in any other fashion but what comes naturally. I scoff. "Of course, Father. Mint-choc-chip, if Alfred has it in stock. I presume you love ice-cream as much as you love every other foodstuff in the known world?"

Cricket's eyes visibly light up, despite already glowing in the dark. "Oh yes, I love ice-cream, especially mint-choc-chip!"

I roll my eyes. "Of course, you do. Silly of me to ask, obviously."

"I shall go tell him to get the bowls ready." Father says before exiting without another word. That leaves me alone with our new house-pet. I would have preferred something smaller and less deadly, but suppose it was inevitable that the old man would go overboard.

"I suppose you want to borrow some of my pyjamas?" I ask, wondering how we will fill the remainder of the evening. I am somewhat hopeful that trying to punch him whilst getting my posterior repeatedly swatted is as strange and uncomfortable as this 'sleepover' will get.

"Do you have any Adventure Time pyjamas?"

"No."

"Steven Universe?"

"No."

"Mortal Kombat?"

"No. I don't."

Cricket looks disappointed with my lack of variety in my sleepwear. "I thought your dad was a billionaire. He can't buy you one set of Adventure Time pyjamas?"

I emit a deep sigh. "I don't know what you're talking about. Is it…a board game or…?"

My companion looks incredulous. "You're eleven and you've _never_ heard of Adventure Time?"

"You're an assassin: how can you possibly follow trends?"

"I watch TV. I'm a normal kid."

That is as ridiculous a statement as I have heard this evening, and that includes his claim that he is an ethical and honourable person. I openly scoff. "You're such an idiot. Neither of us are normal. Tonight, has proven that emphatically."

Cricket grins. "So, you admit we're alike then?"

I roll my eyes. "In the loosest possible terms, yes."

"Good. How about a horror film? Do you like Nightmare on Elm Street?"

I love Nightmare on Elm Street. Before Father came back from his trip through time, I used to watch the whole franchise with Dick on weekends. It was probably the only part of our partnership I really enjoyed. I smirk at him. "Only before I go to bed."

Cricket nods in agreement. "Me too. Which one?"

"Uh, Dream Warriors, number three."

"That's my favourite too, where Freddy turns into…."

"Some kind of serpent and tries to swallow that stupid girl alive?"

"Yes, that's the one." He says. We both smile at that particular scene. It is stupid, and horribly dated in its special effects, but I like the idea of that girl being chased by a rubber snake.

"Then we'll watch that one."

Cricket claps his hands in what I now believe is his way of showing excitement. "Super. Super fun."

Twenty minutes later, we are sat on my bed eating ice-cream and watching the opening credits of Dream Warriors. I have graciously allowed him to wear my second-best pyjamas and actually sit on my bed, as though we are not adversaries on opposite sides of law enforcement. Whilst listening to Cricket's inane running commentary on everything we are seeing, a thought has occurred. I turn to my…'guest' to pose the question currently going around my head.

"Which side of the floor are you going to sleep on?" I ask only to be met with confusion.

"Floor? Why would I sleep on the floor? Do I look like a rug?"

"No, I just assumed…."

"I'm sleeping in the bed. There's plenty of room."

"This is my bed. I don't share it with strange boys, especially one who I've seen break my neck like a matchstick."

"That was only a game. Don't be so serious. I can tell you've never been to a boarding school, have you?"

"No. I was raised by the League. The League doesn't run boarding schools."

"Well, I'm going to sleep in your bed. You can't actually stop me. And, unless _you_ would like to sleep on the floor, with most of your teeth missing, you'll be a little nicer to me, Damian Wayne." There it is, the darkness lurking just below his smooth, boyish veneer. I feel the room turn cold in the aftermath and know to tread lightly.

"I see. You're not…planning to spoon with me, are you, Dante?" I have no idea why that is my primary concern in this scenario, but it prompts him to smile in clear amusement.

"Would it make you uncomfortable?"

"No. I'm not homophobic, but that would be very…weird, even for you."

"I'll be nice then. Will you be nice or not?"

"I…will be…nice."

"Super. Let's get back to the film!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: The first part of this instalment is told from Cricket's POV. The second part is told from Bruce's perspective. Cricket finally tells Damian about his school and how he 'graduated' to his current lifestyle. Bruce begins to question his actions and decides on a drastic course of action until his guest exhibits some inkling of internal change.**

 **Please Read and Review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Cricket 4**

 **Dante**

I want candy. That's what I'm thinking right now. Also, the bed is too hard then too soft on my back. I'm also thinking about...what colour Damian's blood is, what shade on a colour swatch. Crimson or claret, or is it more of a dark burgundy? I know it will look different when wet. I like looking at him when he sleeps, watching his chest rise and fall. I could crush his whole ribcage in one movement. I've done it enough times to know it'll work. I almost stand up to try it, but then think Mr Wayne wouldn't let his butler feed me pudding afterwards. I'll also probably have to kill them both. I look up at the ceiling again. There's a crack in it that reminds me of a fractured skull. I could recreate it on anyone I like. Damian's got a perfectly shaped head for a fracture like that.

"I could kill you if I wanted." I whisper to him in the dark. I know he's asleep, but it's fun to whisper like this. It reminds me of boarding school. We used to whisper there too. "I think I'd like to snap your neck, if I had the choice. What would you do to me, if you could?"

"Stick a knife through your eye and puncture your brain. I'd want you to still be alive." He says to surprise me. He's good at pretending to sleep.

"Sorry if I woke you." I tell him only for him to turn towards me in the bed.

"I'm not really interested in sleeping this evening. Not when you seem to be entertaining the idea of murdering me."

"I don't actually want to kill you. I'm just saying I could if I wanted to." I tell him matter-of-factly before he turns over so we're face to face.

"Did you kill your parents?" He asks to make it sound like he really thinks I did kill them.

I shake my head. "No. I don't remember them."

"Then how did you get your scars? I don't understand: if nobody can hit you, how can you be covered in scars?"

"I wasn't always this fast, silly. My scars are from before."

"What do you really want here? You could've escaped the minute my father let you out of that cage. You could've killed all of us tonight while we slept and then escaped. What are you waiting for? I mean _, really._ "

Damian always wants to know _something._ He always wants people to tell him something he doesn't know. I smile at him. "Is that what you would've done?"

"If I had your fighting prowess, yes, without question."

"I didn't kill you all or escape because I don't need to. I don't want to either. I meant what I said. I like you. I like your dad and I like your butler. More than that though, I love the food here, especially the puddings. Pineapple upside-down cake is my..."

" _Absolute favourite dessert_." We both say in unison. I can't help but giggle at the way he can finish my sentence so perfectly. Even though he's obsessed with learning things he doesn't understand, Damian is really clever. Sometimes I wonder if I'm stupider than I think. I know Damian thinks I'm an idiot.

"What can you tell me about your school? Was it in Hong Kong?" He asks trying to lead the conversation, like always.

I consider. "Would you really stab me through the eye if you had the chance, Damian?"

"Of course. So?" He says without any hesitation. I like that so much, I decide to answer him for once.

"Yes. The school was in Hong Kong. I don't remember anything before the school, but I remember the day I left." I tell him.

"Was that because you massacred everyone there and burned the place to the ground?" He checks to really impress me.

"How did you know that?"

"I've been researching all mass murders and arson crimes in Hong Kong that occurred within the last three years. One report dated two-and-a-half years ago, indicates that a large building being used as a private school in the south of the city was deliberately burned down. When the fires were put out, and all the ashes sifted through, investigating officers found evidence of eighteen corpses being inside the structure at the time the blaze was started. All of them had been killed prior to the arsonist beginning the fire."

"That part was not in any report I saw." I say.

He shrugs. "Hong Kong Police database. I had to utilise some very creative hacking to gain access, but it was all there. How many of those bodies were other 'students'?"

"Ten. The others were the teachers."

"Why did you kill them all?"

"Because I could. The final exam at school was Last-Man Standing. They locked us in a room until only one of us came out alive. I knew before I went in that the teachers were going to kill the survivor too. Nobody else seemed to realise." I say, watching as he inches closer to me.

"Were the other students like you?" He asks.

I shake my head. "No. For a long time, they were all better than me. They were faster and stronger. But they had one weakness."

"And, what might that have been?"

"They were obedient. They only took the doses they were told to before the exam. I took four-times the amount they said would kill us. I knew I was going to die anyway, if I didn't test their theory. It didn't kill me. But it let me kill them. When they let me out that room, I'd drunk some of everyone else's blood to increase the level in mine. I must've had five or six times what everyone else had been injected with. They never stood a chance. The teachers went down easier than the others."

"And then, you burned the place down?"

"Not straightaway, no. I made sure I pissed in one of the teacher's dead mouths first, the one who hated me the most. Then I took all the compound I could find, and then I torched the school by setting fire to all the curtains in the dining hall."

"What is this 'compound' you were all injected with? Is that what gives you your speed?"

"It used to. I ran out eighteen months ago. But my blood is so full of it that I don't need it anymore. It's what gave me my glow-in-the-dark eyes." I say, blinking at him to show them off.

He frowns. "If your body is as saturated with this chemical as you claim, why couldn't my father detect any trace of it in your hair or during scans?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's designed to be invisible to detection."

"Was it something you injected?"

"They injected it into us. The night before the final exam, I just swallowed the lot. It seemed faster."

"You swallowed vials of an unknown substance on the chance it would not kill you?"

"I wanted to live or die by my rules, not theirs. They taught us to fight and made us ruthless. But I hated being told what to do. The others didn't mind because they were older. They wanted attention, but I wanted freedom. I was the only student under ten left alive after the last culling by the teachers. I knew they wanted to get rid of me. A few days before the final exam, they were talking about their funding being cut. They said they had to 'terminate' the program. 'Expel' everyone. I knew what that meant."

"They were going to burn down the school themselves."

"That's right."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know exactly. They never celebrated birthdays at the school. I was either eight-and-a-half or nine."

"How many people had you killed before the final exam?"

"Twelve. Fourteen if we counted the two I crippled. The teachers 'expelled' them right in front of my eyes." Some of their brains got on my face when they did that. It took _forever_ to scrub off.

"Were they all students, except that first kill you told me about?"

"Yep. Nearly all of them were my friends."

"Why did you not simply team-up with the others in the final exam? Surely the eleven of you could've overpowered the instructors and walked away together?"

"They all wanted to be Number One. And they all hated me, because I was the youngest and the one they'd wanted to die first. I knew they wouldn't have listened. So I had to do it on my own."

"What was the school called?"

"Just 'The Academy'. That's all I ever knew it as."

Damian just stares at me in the dark. I can tell he's thinking whether it's better or worse that he knows about boarding school. I would guess from his face that it's worse. Before I told him, he could let himself think I was a lucky moron who was too stupid to know right from wrong. Now he knows how smart I am, it's impossible for him to believe that. I do know right from wrong. I just don't care. School helped a little, but I was always numb inside. Like extra-muscle, consciences just weigh you down in a fight.

I do like Damian though. The older boys said they had these 'urges' when I was at boarding school. They'd once or twice to get into my pyjama bottoms to satisfy them, but gave up when I broke their noses with my elbow. I didn't have them. Even when I learnt about sex, I still didn't have them. But I think I do now. Because of Damian. I like being this close to him, being able to smell him and feel the heat of his body. As much as I'd like to fracture his skull or crush his ribcage, I think I'd like to smack his bum more. It was firm.

"What are you doing?" He asks when I rest my forehead on his chest.

"If you hold me, maybe I won't seem as dangerous to you."

"Can you be held? I've seen no evidence you respond to kindness."

"Aren't you supposed to be a scientist? Think of it as an experiment."

"I...I'm not very good at giving physical reassurance. What if I can't do it as you want me to? Am I going to be disembowelled for my troubles?"

"I don't think you'll do a good job, but unless you do nothing, I won't go as far as killing you."

"I would like to remind that irrespective of your inclinations, I am assuredly heterosexual with no interest in my own sex whatsoever."

"Well I don't know what I am. So, just be nice."

I hear him sigh and then feel strong arms gingerly coil themselves around my back. "You feel...strangely fragile." He says in surprise as I turn my head to rest my cheek against his chest.

I smirk. "I'm not."

"I know. It's just odd how soft you are for someone so utterly destructive." He says before actually poking my back and shoulders with his finger. I don't mind. I quite like it.

"All my exercise comes from killing. If I'm not killing, normally I just sit around and eat or play video games." I tell him as he stops prodding me and starts running his thumbs over my ribs.

"Whatever this compound is, it must help keep your metabolism stable. With the amount you eat, you should be grossly overweight."

"Do I seem less dangerous to you now?" I ask, hoping he might agree to let us fall asleep like this.

"Will you agree to put the magnetic restraints back on tomorrow? That is the only possible way you can seem less dangerous to me. I feel like I'm coddling a cheetah, not a human being." He says, ruining my mood by bringing chains into the conversation.

"I'm not putting those things back on." I tell him flatly. He responds by pushing me off and getting out of the bed.

"Then you'll never be anything but a threat to me as long as you're alive." He says before turning his back and walking out. "Don't follow me, Cricket. Be a gentleman for once."

I let him go off and sulk. I thought we were alike, but clearly his weakness is being too obedient too. Mr Wayne clearly pulls his strings better than I believed. Or...maybe _my_ weakness is being too... _dis_ obedient. Maybe I am just stupid. Maybe that's why I'm here alone instead of somewhere else. The bed feels too big and empty without him. No more midnight whispers or half-hugs. I decide the floor is better anyway. It's always too hard, and at least that's something. I settle down on the floor next to the bed and close my eyes. I still want candy.

 **Bruce**

I am currently besieged on two fronts. On one side of me, Jason is advocating we kill Cricket, while on the other, Tim is suggesting we somehow lock him up for the rest of his natural life in a room with no windows. Both of them think I am mad to let that boy roam free. I have yet to tell them he slept in Damian's bed last night. I hold that close to my chest as they continue to push their agendas forcefully.

"Do you even know what he's actually been taking, Bruce?" Tim says on the right-hand screen. "I've checked your bio scans of him. His blood is saturated with some foreign substance that has high concentrations of Kryptonite in its composition. That's why his eyes are glowing green for God's sake! That stuff gives normal human beings cancer and, even though Cricket's MRI didn't reveal any tumours or abnormal growths, his CAT scan is all kinds of messed-up. His ventromedial prefrontal cortex, that little area of the brain near the forehead that controls guilt, empathy, compassion and shame, is atrophied to the point it almost doesn't exist. From what I can tell, it's a combination of pharmaceuticals and blunt-force trauma over years that have caused the damage."

On the other channel, Jason, who is patched into the conversation, looks oddly pleased. "There you have it, big man. This kid is a full-on psychopath with zero ability to grasp what a fucking monster he is. It figures someone who'll kill a corrupt politician just as easily as he'd murder a grocery clerk agreeing to testify against a crime syndicate would have to be a special kind of crazy. We've got to kill him, for his own good."

"No, Jay, not what I was driving at. All I'm saying is that Cricket, or Dante or whatever you want to call him, can't get anything out of your ethics lessons because he's incapable of understanding them. Bruce, love and compassion aren't going to bring him over to our way of thinking. Cricket doesn't have a moral code. He doesn't even have a real sense of right and wrong. All he knows is that killing pays the bills and makes him feel good. Psychopaths always feel good when they're in control. Right now, he's got you around his finger. When he feels like it, he's going to crush you just because he can." Tim tells me with the utmost sincerity.

"Even without that aspect of his brain to aid him, Dante has already made remarkable progress in impulse control and restraint. He has been wholly placid since his release from the Fish Bowl."

""He's playing a game, Bossman. That's all he's doing. He'll play nice until he gets bored and decides it'd be more fun to break every bone in your body in alphabetical order. Look, I hear you, okay? The Lazarus Pit gave me some similar damage when I got my mind back. And I'm doing okay. But I had a code that you taught me, one I never forgot, no matter how dirty I started fighting. And I loved you. I respected you enough to try and make the changes you wanted. Cricket never had a code to live by. He's never loved anyone. I know because I've been to his apartment in Hong Kong. The only things in there besides the furniture it came with are candy bars and horror movies. He doesn't own a single book, trinket, keepsake or memento of anything he's ever done. Nothing has any value to him. Nothing at all. He's completely empty inside. Plus he radiates Kryptonite. Even if he isn't developing tumours, chances are you guys could be the more you come into contact with him."

"He does emit radiation, but it is on a different wavelength to conventional Kryptonite. Thus far, it appears to be harmless to human DNA. All of us are free of any sign of sickness." I tell him.

"Yeah, still wouldn't trust that until you've screened him properly. Which, ideally, should be NEVER." Jason retorts with his usual grace.

The pair of them make compelling arguments for the boy's total isolation from society. Neither of them has a high opinion of Dante. I do not blame them for their bias. He has been nothing but cruel to both of them. "Can we at least run a field test to see if he can be part of a team effort?" I ask. Both look at me as though I have grown a second and then a third head.

"You cannot let him loose in Gotham. Not under any circumstances." Tim tells me bluntly. I nod my head in agreement.

"I wanted to pair him with you, Jason. Since both of you have a similar way of accomplishing your agendas, I believe it might be the best fit. Where are you now?" I already know his location. It would prove most convenient.

Jason rolls his eyes to prove he knows what I want to happen too. "I'm in Hong Kong, Bruce." He sighs.

"Dante would be a highly valuable asset to you, since he speaks fluent Chinese and knows the city intimately. A field test with you would be our best option."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. After all this trouble, you're just going to let him loose back in his home stomping ground with only me for supervision? He'll assume everything's back to normal, murder me and then go looking for another contract."

"I think he may surprise you, given half-a-chance."

"I wouldn't even trust him to stand perfectly fucking still, let alone have my back on operations." Jason says with a finality on the subject I do not like. With both Tim and Jason taking such a hard-line stance, I am beginning to question the nature of my own actions. Have I made an egregious error by giving Dante free rein?

I make my excuses and exit the cave for the house before traversing upstairs to Damian's room. I find Dante asleep on the floor without pillows or even a blanket. Damian is nowhere to be found. I do not wake our guest for fear of triggering some instinctive reaction that leads to further injury. Instead I go in search of my son. I locate him in one of the guest bedrooms on the opposite side of the house. He is in the bed but already awake, despite it being barely after six in the morning.

"What happened?" I ask him whilst rounding the foot of the bed.

"I don't trust him, Father. He told me what he did at his 'school'. He thinks he and I are the same, but we are not. He won't put the restraints back on. He won't listen to your lessons. He will simply do whatever pleases him."

"That is not the impression you gave last night when I left you."

"He is...sexually attracted to me, Father. I do not want or desire those attentions from someone like him. If he wanted to...do something with me, neither of us could stop him."

"I am beginning to see how ill-advised my actions have been of late." I tell him sitting on the edge of the bed. This is an element of Dante I had not predicted. It only serves to increase the danger, if he has some infatuation with my son. "Jason and Tim are of the same opinion as you, that we should get rid of him one way or another." I add, gently clapping him on the shoulder. "Do you want me to call Clark before this goes any further?"

"I think that would be best, Father. If he will not willing go back into the cage or wear the restraints as insurance, then it would be best for all of us if he were elsewhere."

"I'm sorry I put you in that position, Son. I assure you, it was not my intention. I thought...he might be more cooperative if he was treated with less hostility."

He sighs lethargically. "I know you meant well, Father, but as I told you, he isn't meant for domestication. We can't make him be more like us by treating him as we treat one another. He only sees it as weakness. I can tell."

He recaps the relevant points of Dante's 'boarding school' experiences for me. I make a note to thoroughly research the Academy and its founders once I have dealt with the rest of the morning's unpleasantness. The boy agrees to try and sleep more as I leave to inform our guest of our mutual decision. Upon returning to Damian's room however, I find Dante is not longer there. The pyjamas he borrowed are folded neatly on the bed, which has also been made with hospital corners. They are as good as Alfred's by my judgment. I investigate the house for his presence whilst assuming he may have simply wandered out the front door to his freedom. Ten minutes of searching does not yield results. Then I see him wandering the rose gardens at the rear of the house. He is dressed in his work-clothes, including his goggles and riding boots. His body language does not suggest he is preparing to flee. Currently he is crouched in front of the old man's most prized English rose. I manoeuvre to another window to better see his face. It is one of intense concentration. This is all very odd.

I exit via the French doors and approach from his right. I make sure my footfalls are heavy, so he is aware of my presence. He ignores me until I am only a few inches away.

"I know this is pretty and that Mr Pennyworth has spent years making it that way, but I still want to destroy it." He tells me with a hint of melancholy. He glances up at me. "Why am I like this, Mr Wayne?"

"There is no easy answer to that, Dante. I would only be guessing if I said otherwise." I say honestly. I clear my throat. "There is something we need to discuss..."

"I put them on." He says pulling up the sleeve of his tailcoat to show the magnetic restraint locked around his wrist. "The ones on my ankles are underneath my boots. The collar...is a no though. I'm a lot of really bad things, but I'm not a dog." He tells me before reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulls out the control unit for the restraints. "Test it to prove I'm not lying."

"You understand I must, don't you?" I say hovering my thumb over the relevant button to activate the field.

He nods. "I want you to trust me."

I press the button. His arms instantly slam into his ankles with the tell-tale buzz of an active magnetic field. This is not performance art by the boy. It is insurance. I physically attempt to pull the restraints apart to ensure the field is not somehow at a low level and he is trying to lull me into a false sense of security. It is at maximum strength. It is capable of halting even Clark for a few seconds at this setting. Satisfied of this measure, I turn off the field. He stands up and stretches out his spine before looking at me expectantly.

"What exactly have you heard?" I ask him, knowing something prompted these actions instead of him doing them of his own volition.

"I heard you talking with your other Robins in the cave. The one like me wanted to kill me. The one more like you wanted to lock me up forever and a day. When you were going back to the house, I ran back upstairs and pretended to be asleep. Then I listened in on your talk with Damian for a little bit. Why didn't you just say I'm like this because of my broken brain?" He asks with more confusion than anger on the subject.

I let my eyes wander from his inquisitive features to the rose before speaking. "Only the part of your brain that controls empathy, guilt and shame is damaged. Everything else is intact. You probably want to destroy the rose because then you would have control over it."

"Control?"

"You decide what happens next. You can leave it for Alfred to find, you can take it to him and watch his reaction or bury it. The important thing is that you dictate the situation as you see fit."

When I turn back to face him, he is regarding the rose too. He takes off his glove and brushes his fingertips against the rose's petals. "But if I don't destroy it, aren't I still in control?"

"Only of yourself. The rose will do what it pleases with no input from you. It would be out of your control."

"We had roses at the school." He tells me whilst running his index finger down the rose's thorns. "They made us prick our fingers every morning as a test." He pulls his finger away to show excessive scar tissue but no blood. "Maybe that's why I want to destroy it. It's pretty, but it hurts to look at it."

I nod my head. "That would be a valid reason. As I said, I can only speculate on your mental condition. I cannot give guarantees for your behaviour."

"Can I stay now? I know you can help me, Mr Wayne. I put the restraints on, I gave you the control...is that enough trust?" He says in a tone that borders on desperation. It is more emotion than I expected.

"You can stay only if you also agree to keep away from Damian for the time being. Your behaviour is inappropriate for a guest."

"I'm sorry. I've never liked anyone like that before. I didn't realise I was scaring him that much. I just wanted a hug." He says, sounding suitably scolded.

I clear my throat again. "Damian rarely gives anybody physical affection, myself included. Forcing him into a situation like that is wrong. Do not do it again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mr Wayne." He says with a bowed head before inexplicably presenting the palm of his right hand. There is deep horizontal scaring on the palm that speaks of repeated and brutal caning. The gesture seems reflexive rather than considered. I take the risk and gently push his hand down with my fingers. He raises his head and grins sheepishly. "Sorry. I hear 'wrong' and I assume punishment. Silly, really. You're not like them. Not at all." He says slipping his glove back on.

"I hope this is not a trick, Dante. I hope this is genuine, your desire to change your behaviour. May I ask why you are wearing your 'work-clothes' instead of something more comfortable?"

"I thought perhaps if I treated being here as more of a job than a holiday, I might focus better? I don't think I've been as good as you wanted me to be."

"I am not quite certain what I expected. For what it is worth, I think you have behaved better than anticipated in most respects. I believe your shortcomings are a result of your upbringing rather than the physical condition of your brain."

"So, you think I can work? Even though I'm too stupid to do anything but draw pictures in your lessons?"

" _I know I don't want you as an enemy."_ I tell him in Chinese.

He grins at me. _"Your accent's getting better."_ He replies in the same tongue. _"I can be trusted to stand perfectly fucking still. Honestly."_

"Jason does not mince words. He just...hasn't seen your best side. Neither has Tim." I tell him in English. "Without insurance, I could not risk letting you remain here. But the fact you have willingly agreed to this fail-safe measure does you a great deal of credit. I only hope it is for the right reason." If he has only acquiesced to remain close to Damian, this will end exactly as everyone else has forecast.

"I didn't chain myself just for the pudding, Mr Wayne. I haven't lied to you since I got here. Normally I lie to everyone, like I was taught. Someone who stops me from killing a target becomes another target. I never realised before I came here, but the only people I haven't killed during my work were people who knew you. I thought honour made people weak, but my respect for you let them live. And, because I let them live, you let me stay in your home instead of leaving me to rot. Respect for you gave me this chance to be better. I don't want to waste it. I want to make you proud of me."

I raise an eyebrow in mild astonishment at this declaration of intent. "You really have been thinking, haven't you?"

"My family name is Keech. I read it in their files before I burned down the school. Dante David Keech. Keech is spelled with two of the letter 'E' instead of one." He tells me before shrugging. "I've literally never told anybody else that in the whole world. But I trust you, Mr Wayne. I know you won't...use it against me."

"Call me Bruce. Let's talk more over breakfast, Mr Keech."


End file.
